


An Alternative Ending

by FellGhost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, With appearances by other characters.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FellGhost/pseuds/FellGhost
Summary: This is an alternate ending to the show that is supposed to be more serious, emotional, and romantic.  It flips back and forth from Aziraphale to Crowley frequently, just in case you get confused.  Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!





	An Alternative Ending

There was no final prophecy, no warning which danced from blackened pages into grateful hands. Nevertheless, they were together. Light was filtering through distant clouds, kissing fair skin, rosy cheeks. The air was warmer than it had been the previous days, as if the earth itself was attempting to thank them. Aziraphale smiles, something soft and sheepish, yet filled to the brim with adoration. Golden eyes are nearly eclipsed by pupils that were once mere slits, and for a moment, they dart off to the side. Behind tinted glasses, the action couldn’t be seen, which was, in Crowley’s opinion, for the better, lest it lead to undesired enquiries. He doesn’t want his angel getting any funny ideas in his head, after all, about how horribly smitten he is with him ( except Aziraphale already knows ). 

If the pair had been paying closer attention, they may have noticed the danger approaching them. But, they were still buzzing with the relief of preventing Armageddon. Unfortunately, it takes only a moment of perceived safety for disaster to strike. 

Heaven, for once, was not so discreet. Bound with rope and gagged with linen, they swept the angel away with the coordinated ease of a professional strike team. Wrists already sting from frantic wringing, yet, voice muffled, he calls out to his demon. Pale eyes are wide with fear, and though the sight of Crowley reaching toward him with snapped attention should have been comforting, it was not. For beyond the backs of Uriel and Sandalphon, he sees foul fiends surrounding his friend. Before Crowley has the chance to try something – anything – he’s seeing stars of the sort that were never crafted by celestial beings, but resulted from a throbbing pain against one’s skull. 

Eventually, both are marched before their superiors, but neither are concerned for their own well-being. The demon, at least, is granted a mock trial. The angel is not afforded the same courtesy.

Aziraphale had always believed, with boundless love and a concrete conviction, that Heaven was comprised entirely of benevolence. Heaven remained just, and the almighty, in Her ineffable glory, could never allow something terrible to happen without astute judgement and keen reasoning. However, as he sits bound to a chair with accusations flung in his face regarding his corruption, of all things, he’s caught by the thought that this whole situation is wrong. This cannot possibly be right, because if it were, Crowley would be next to him. He was always there, from the very beginning, beautiful before Eden and wickedly magnificent afterwards. He had been present whenever Aziraphale faced the odds, always sweeping in to save him like some infernal knight in shining armor. 

So, where was he now? How had they not formulated a plan for this? 

In Hell, Crowley was greeted with a damp, despicable darkness. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, bleak ivory hallways of Heaven, just as its inhabitants generally preferred. He was standing before his accusers, chin tilted upward defiantly. Lips pressed into a thin line, he is forced to swallow down the anger bubbling up inside of him, and, though he’d be reluctant to admit it, the worry too, which beat on his soul like the first storm bruising velvet petals. 

Behind him, a tub is filled with holy water. Michael is smug, not a doubt in their mind that Crowley will perish as he deserves. The water is tested, and a scream reverberates in his chest from the demon who was forced into doing the testing. The reality of death sets in, and Crowley’s facade cracks. He hisses, teeth bared as though he wished to fill the whole of Hell with his venom. He had to be angry now, because if he was not fueled by fury, surely he would fall apart. There is nothing more atrocious, in his mind, than the fact that his angel must be enduring the same unwarranted punishment. 

The heat surrounds him, aching in his vessel’s bones. Towering Hellfire swirled with ferocity before Aziraphale, threatening to make ash of his very existence. This had to be a misunderstanding, he’d insisted, a mistake. He pleads with the lot of angels expecting him to close the gap on his own, and the hatred he received in Gabriel’s voice shattered his already wavering ideals. 

His faith in them, in Her, in this whole ineffable business was finally collapsing where it had already been fractured. He can feel it, like his soul is drowning, like he needs to breathe. It gnaws as his expression twists with grief, but still, he is not concerned with himself. His friend, best friend – the demon he had refused to be honest with for millennia – was far below, left undoubtedly to heinous torment. His mind raced with the grave possibilities, and regret consumed him. What an absolute fool he had to be, with a heart much too heavy now to finally gift the being most important to him. 

With eyes shut tight, he steps forward. 

Crowley fought, as he always had, for what he believed was the right thing mixed up within the wrong. He’d wanted answers from Her. He’d wanted to save the world. He’d wanted to be someone worthy of an angel’s praise. Demonic miracles and a bright imagination, however, would never be enough. Hastur himself was the one dragging Crowley toward the end with Beelzebub’s approval. He is pushed backward with loose footing, back colliding sharply with the tub’s edge, and all he can think of in that instance is an apology. What would he say, if Aziraphale lived through this whole ordeal and he didn’t? What words could possibly be enough? After six-thousand years, really, the only thing left he wanted to tell him was so agonizingly simple; I have always loved you. 

There is a pain which sparks on his skin and ignites inward. He feels himself burning away, inch by inch. Every nerve was alight, sensitive, searing. His knees give out beneath him, and he is falling. Wings extend instinctively to save himself in a burst of feathers, white overrun with reds and golds that abruptly give way to smoke. It hurts so immensely that nothing spoken could ever aptly describe it. But, there is also something cool in the breeze that cradles exposed skin. He gazes before himself, deep as night, and the tears that brim are consumed by the heat before they have the slightest chance to drop. Yet, Aziraphale weeps not for himself. Whether it is selfless or selfish, he would feel this way forever more, if it meant Crowley would never have to do the same. 

He should have loved him sooner. 

There is a sound long unheard, and a crash that ends where Crowley begins. The act is so abrupt, it’s difficult for him ( or any onlooker ) to register that the warmth clinging tight to him radiates from another body. Wrapped around him securely are the arms of his angel, he realizes. Glasses lost in the impact, he makes no attempt to hide the lopsided grin parting his lips as he studies a face that is both familiar and ethereal. Slender fingers curl into the remnants of a ruined suit while joy wells within him. But then, his stomach drops. His expression falters and fades when he notices the wings curled around him so protectively are dark, and the eyes – oh, the eyes. 

“Aziraphale?” The name is croaked, strained from the throat. With a gentle curve of his lips, the other smiles. There is sadness there, a silent lament for what had been lost. Yet, the more he looks, the more apparent it is that the same adoration he always held for Crowley, tender and profound, remained. The agony had subsided, the flames gone with it. Reveling in the demon’s presence, he moves his hands to cup a distinctly perfect jawline. “It’s good to see you, dear.” 

It would be nice to think that Aziraphale’s presence made a difference. He would, rather effectively, explain that Crowley’s actions were beyond dastardly, which was quite good for Hell. That’s right. How could they argue when a delayed apocalypse allowed an angel to fall from Grace? That hadn’t happened since the Rebellion, and they should be thankful for an addition to their rotten ranks. Furthermore, Heaven should no longer concern itself with Aziraphale, for he was no longer their problem. Then, when he was finished speaking all he had to say, he would take Crowley’s hand ever so gently, and the two of them would return to his home in London where there would be plenty of crying. There would also, however, be soft kisses and new promises. A different Arrangement would carry them forward, together, as it always should be. 

If only that was how their story was written.

**Author's Note:**

> ( I originally posted this elsewhere, but I wanted to keep it here since I'm particularly proud of it. This is also where all my longer drabbles are collected. I really do hope you enjoyed it though! )


End file.
